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THE SORROWS 



OF 



NiANCY 



By L. BOYD. 



V^ 



RICHMOND, VA.: 

O. E. FLANHART PRINTING COMPANY, 

1899. 



Copyright, 1899, 
By L. BOYD. 






'^1 



PREFACE TO 

THE SORROWS OF NANCY. 

BY L. BOYD. 



History should be painted as a stern god- 
dess, with Truth on her right hand and Mem- 
ory on her left, while in the background should 
appear tradition, like a wandering light, 
glimmering along the quicksands of oblivion, 
and in the foreground should stand an angel 
pointing to the future. 

A man's book is the visible sign of the in- 
visible spirit that is in him. It is his brain- 
child over which he yearns in love and pity. It 
is an entity that may go down the ages and 
live in the praises of men forever, or it may 



6 Preface. 

be slain in the arena of public opinion. If the 
writer has told the truth and his book be thus 
cruelly slain, it will have a resurrection and 
come forth at last triumphant. 

To w^rite the truth concerning the birth 
and birth-place of Abraham Lincoln (so called) 
was suggested to me as follows: 

I visited Washington, D. C, for the first 
time, about ten years ago. As I was approach- 
ing the Capitol I came in sight of the statue 
of Chief-Justice John Marshall, seated. There, 
thought I, is the finest likeness of President 
Lincoln I have ever seen. I looked at it for 
some time from all points of view before I read 
the name. After reading the inscription, a 
certain saying of my father's flashed across my 
mind, and I determined to learn the truth — the 
zcJioIc truth — concerning President Lincoln's 



Preface. y 

ancestry. I have done so — as the fohowing 
affidavits will show. 

I believe that President Lincohi was a 
brave, good man. I beheve also that the peo- 
ple of the North were the only ones who re- 
joiced at his death. The South knew, too 
well, that at his death her only friend had de- 
parted from the Council of those who held her 
destiny in the hollows of their hands. 

Into the ''Sorrows of Nancy" I have 
woven facts, traditions, and fancies. Should 
the story live, coming generations will do me 
justice; should it die, let it sleep with the 
pure motive that gave it birth— the love of 
^^'^^^^^•' L. Boyd. 



^he SoFrouDg ofJlaiK^y 



In sight of the Blue Ridge mountains, 
in the " Old Dominion," stood a rude, log 
cabin, in the latter part of the last century. 
There lived in this cabin, at that time, a young 
woman named Lucy and her only child, 
Nancy. Nancy was a little child, and was to 
be pitied, for she had no legal right to her 
father's name, which was a high-sounding one, 
and had been coupled with honor for hundreds 
of years before she was born. 

To say that Nancy lived in sight of the 
Blue Ridge Mountains is to say that she saw 
from her mother's cabin the " changing 



10 The Sorrows of Nancy. 

glories " that float along their misty tops dii 
dawn and at eventide, and that she searched 
for wild flowers among the shadows of their 
deep valleys, and reflected through her whole 
after-life a part of the granduer she had ab- 
sorbed among the scenes of her childhood, 
which would have refined and educated even 
an ordinary child, and Nancy was no ordinary 
child. 

There was an old woman called Nancy, 
who lived with Lucy, and who was called Old 
Nancy to distinguish her from young Nancy. 
This woman had seen better days, and had re- 
ceived a fair education, for the times in which 
she lived. She was young Nancy's teacher in 
that solitary spot, and had taught her to read 
and write. For these accomplishments voung 
Nancy had little use, as she possessed but one 



The Sorrozi's of Nancy. ii 

book in the world — Bunyan's " Pilgrim's Pro- 
gress " — and one friend outside of her 
mother's cabin, to whom she did not need to 
write, as she saw her daily. 

This friend was a negress, who lived in a 
hut not far away from her mother's door, and 
took care of the cows and sheep that belonged 
to her master. 

If uneducated people have a fair average 
of good, common sense, they are invariably 
the best story tellers — because they draw their 
metaphors and trophes from nature, and these 
are always original and oftentimes sublime. 

This negress was named Joult, and was 
wise beyond her day and generation. 

A cold spring evening was drawing to a 
close on the scene around Lucy's cabin; while 
on the mountain tops there gleamed a pale 



12 The Sorrozi's of Nancy. 

electric light among the gathering shadows. 
Lucy chopped some wood, made a fire on the 
wide hearth of her cabin, and made some 
corn-meal mnsh — the only kind of food the 
family had tasted for weeks. Afterwards she 
took some rolls and began to spin on the big 
wheel. Old Nancy was carding rolls in the 
chimney corner. It is to be regretted that 
spinning (on the big wheel) has been discontin- 
ued, for no exercise could be more beneficial 
to the health, nor is any other half so graceful. 
The firelight was the only light in the room, 
and its fitful, flickering rays fell on Lucy's 
lythe form as it went back and forth to the 
whirr of the wheel. Her long hair, unbound, 
fell in waves far below her waist. The expres- 
sion of her face was melancholy in the ex- 
treme, and added to the charm of her beautv. 



The Sorrozi's of Nancy. ij 

There was a knock at the door. Little Nancy 
ran to open it, and Joult walked in and sat 
down in the corner opposite to old Nancy. 
She did this with an air of condescension — for 
she belonged to an aristocrat, a very rich man 
in the neighborhood, and felt herself far above 
the family she visited, and she was, certainly, 
much better dressed than any member of it. 
Little Nancy drew a stool to the side of Joult, 
who had filled and lighted her pipe, and was 
smoking in contemplative mood, and had said 
nothing since her ertrance, but " Good even' 
to ye." Directly little Nancy looked in her 
face and said : " Aunt Joult, what's your 
soul? " Joult took her pipe from her mouth, 
and, looking at Nancy with a puzzled expres- 
sion on her jet-black face, replied : " Lord, 
Gawd Amighty, chile, w'y hit's youah sper- 



/^ The Sorrows of Nancy. 

ret — you a great, big gal en kin read en write, 
(loan know dat?" "Did you ever see one, 
Aunt Joult?" Joult thought a while before 
answering: "Yes, I did onct. I wur livin' 
right heah in dis heah cabin," pointing in the 
direction of her hut with her i)i])e, " en I done 
ben to a funel. Jess done die — po fellah — en T 
wur late gittin' home — en jes' es I git in de 
valley — at de foot ob de snail shell — I seed 
sumpen go ' bop ' by me — en dah ! bless 
Gawd, I see a boss douten a head on 'im gwin 
by me lek de win'. My boss wur dat scud dat 
he rared up — he rared up — en me specin' 
ebery minit fur to go clean ober his head. But 
I hilt on, do — en when I git home I doan git 
done trimblin de whole night." Little Nancy 
looked in the fire and seemed lost in thought. 
" Aunt Joult," said she, " will you be a horse 



The Sorrows of Nancy. 15 

when you die? " " A boss ! Listen at dat now ! 
A boss! Who say I gwine be a boss? I not 
gwine talk long ob you ef you talk dat away. 
Ole Miss say — en she know — dat I gwine be 
white es she am when I dies." Old Nancy, to 
pacify her, said : '' Tell us about the fort, Joult, 
Nancy is a child, and talks like one." " Dat 
too long," said Joult, '' but ef you wan't me 
fur to tell hit, I kin." Lucy stopped the wheel. 
Old Nancy laid aside her cards, and little 
Nancy put her elbows on Joult's knee, and 
over all the firelight played with flickering, 
fitful blaze. The picture was one to which 
Rembrant could have done justice — as he of 
all the artists of the world knew how to 
paint shadows. 

Old Joult began, after lighting her pipe: 
" When ole Moss come heah to settle, he lef 



i6 The Sorrozus of Nancy. 

ole Miss in de settlemint at de Fort — en his 
niggahs, too — en he buy me en Jess on de 
way heah. So we come on, we did, wid ole 
Moss en a passel ob po' white men wha' he 
fotch along wid 'im fur to build his cabin — 
case we 'bleged fur to lib in a cabin till we git 
de big house built whut Ole Moss lib in now. 
W^ell, suh ! when de cabin wur done — hit wur 
chunked wid stones en mud f'um top to bot- 
tom, en jis' little holes, fur light to come in, 
'bout big es a man's head en bouten es high 
fum de flo'. Ole Moss, he hab de flo' ob de 
cabin built a considabul way fum de groun', 
en you 'bleged fur to go up steps fur to git in 
at de do'. I foun' out whut Ole Moss do dat 
fur atter while. We hab a cow en a hog or 
two, en chickens, en, suh ! we hab a rooster 
whut could outcrow Ginil Washinton, an he 



The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 17 

crow all dc time — hit 'peared to me, en rared 
'roun' continaly, lek he wan' to light. He 
cotch hit fur dat foohshtnest. Ef he done 
been a peacable roostah, he mought a ben 
hvin' to-day. Oh, yes, we hab a dog, too, 
name Towser, en Ole Moss think de worle 
en all ob dat dog. He nevah mek no noise; he 
up en bites when de time comes. Well, suh ! 
one evenin' a man come ridin' past Ole 
Moss's cabin wid his boss all in a lathah ob 
sweat, en hollah to Ole ]\Ioss dat de Injuns 
wur a-comin' — dat dee done kill a whole pas- 
sel ob people, en wur a-comin' dis away, en 
dat he bettah mek his way to de settlemint — 
en den he rid on, he do, et de top ob his voice. 
Ole Moss, he look up at de sun, en say: " Hit 
am not more'n a hour high, en he not got time 
to mek de Fort, en he not gwine risk hit." He 



i8 The Sorrows of Nancy. 

call all de men en Jess and me, en say : " Kill 
de hogs; tek up de flo', en kill right undah hit, 
so de Injuns cayn't see de blood, en drive de 
cow into de woods, en de hosses, drive dem, 
too, en kill de chickens en put em undah de 
ilo', too, en Towser — poor Towser — I hab fur 
to kill Towser, or loss de life ob ebery man 
Jack ob us." I seed Jess look kinder quare, en 
I gib 'im a nudge. " Did they kill Towser, 
Aunt Joult, did — " " Now, hush, little Nancy, 
I gwine tell you treckly. You jes' listen. I's 
a-talkin' now." She paused and put a straw 
through the stem of her pipe, filled it leisurely, 
lighted it l)y putting a coal of fire on it, began 
to puff and resumed her story. 

" De fust cotch de hogs, en tuck en knock 
'em in de head en put 'em undah de flo' en cut 
de throats, en den me en Jess, we climb up de 



The Sorrozvs of Nancy. ip 

tree — case de chickens done gone to roost by 
dat time — kaze bit wur nurly dark. We tuck 
de cbicken by de neck en choke 'em en den 
fling 'em down to Ole Moss en he cotch 'em. 
I cotch dat roostah. I do declar' — I wur right 
sorry fur 'im, so I wur, caze he fit lek a man 
en nuvah screech en squall lek de hens — he jes' 
fit en say nothin'. He lek to get away onct or 
twict. Ole Moss say, ' Joult, why'n you fling 
down de roostah?' I say, ' I's comin', Ole 
Moss.' So I belt de roostah twill I got to de 
las' limb ob de tree, en ban' 'im to Ole Moss — 
kaze I not gwine kill 'im. I nevah kin furgit 
dat roostah, kaze he wur a purty thing en crow 
lek bis wanpike done been mek outen brass, 
stridden meat, en stuff. 

"' Den Jess he turn to Ole Moss en say : 
' Ole Moss, sarvant, sub ! I gwine tek de 



20 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

bosses — ride one en lead t'other — en dribe de 
cow a piece in de woods, en leab 'em, en take 
Towser en go on, ef you gwine gib youah 
cornsent — kaze Towser he am nurdly people, 
anyhow, en I cayrn't kill 'im, Ole Moss; cndccd 
I cayrn't.' Ole Moss's eyes farly wartered 
Avhen he say, ' Gawd be wid you, Jess, you kin 
go.' So Jess he cotch de bosses en druv de 
cow off a piece, en Towser be galloped along 
lek he done been tried fur 'is life en jes' gut 
loose, ^^^e'uns all got undab de fio' en lay 
down. De men kick up sich a dust a gittin' 
undab de fio' an' a puttin' down de puncbins 
afterwurds dat I up en sneeze — en, sub! Ole 
Moss he gimme such a plot in de side dat I 
tuck a stitch in bit — en dab I wur, en feared 
to hollah ! A\'ay long in de night we beam 'em 
comin'. Dee kick up a powful bellabolu, but 



The Sorrows of^ Nancy. 21 

no dog bark, no hen cackle, no hog grunt; 
but way off in de woods Specklefoot she bawd 
lek she wan me fur to come to 'er. De Injuns 
come up to de house en dim' up en look in 
de holes; all vvur dark en de cayrn't see nuffin. 
I wur feared de mought hear my heart a- 
beatin' — kaze I hean hit my own sef — bip, bip, 
bipetee-bip — en I wur afeared to draw my 
breaf. Treckly de yallah dogs busts de do' 
wide open en walk right squa' acrost wha' I 
wur a-layin'. Den de struck a flint — we hearn 
'em — en I say to myself, 'We'uns done clean 
gone — dee'll git us now.' But, no, suh, he tar 
'roun' en hollah lek de gwane bust deeselves, 
en den de went ofT jes' es dee come. We 
nevah crawl outen dat place till broad day- 
light, en den w^e crope out, en Ole Moss tuck 
us to de settlemint. Dat's w-ha' I seed dat 



22 The Sorrcnvs of Nancy. 

awful snake. I gwine home now. I gwine tell 
YOU 'bout dat, little Nancy, anucklah night. 
Tell you whut ! Ef little Nancy tek de right 
cayre ob herself, she gwine be a beauty. Dat 
she am." 

There was a rocky bridle path just at the 
foot of the hill on which Lucy's cabin stood, 
and close to the path that led down to it grew 
a spreading beech-tree. In this tree Nancy 
had watched a pair of robins build their nest 
for three successive springs. The nest w\as 
finished now, Nancy knew, and the mother 
bird sitting on it, for Cockrobin sang to her 
morning and evening, and filled the air with 
the melody of love. And, what time he was 
not foraging for dainties to regale her appe- 
tite withal, he strutted in the sunshine on the 
bare trunk of a fallen tree. Nancv loved to 



Tlie Sorrows of Nancy. 2j 

watch him. The httle mite was filled with 
pride; he was soon to be a father; he would 
hand down his name to future generations. 
At that thought he hopped along a few steps, 
and then stood straight up and looked Hke 
a fat man with his hands in his pockets strut- 
ting the streets of some great city thinking: 
" I have filled my barns. I have builded 
houses; my children are coming on, and I shall 
never want." Cockrobin snatched a worm 
that crawled before him and flew to his mate, 
and while she devoured it he sang his loudest 
notes. If he had only known what was before 
him, they would have been notes of farewell. 
He flew back to the log, and began to strut, 
as before. On the mountain side, bathed in 
the light of early morning, was the Judas-tree. 
She flaunted her beautiful dress in the face of 



2/j. The Sorrows of Nancy. 

other trees less grandly clad, as if to say: 
" Look at me ! I am the loveliest tree in the 
forest, and I have lovers whose names are 
countless." An old tree, clothed in grave, 
dark green, whose branches towered above 
the Judas-tree in mighty strength, seemed to 
shake its head at her, and say: " Your beauty 
is short-lived. I shall be here when the places 
that know you now shall know you no more 
forever; for mine is the beauty of strength." 
The young trees in their pale-green garniture 
laughed back at the Judas-tree — as if they 
knew a thing or two — while below the wild 
flowers and the sweet Anemone kept their 
own counsel. Cockrobin's time had come. 
Never more ; oh, never more ! should he fly 
from the Sunny South and build his nest in the 
shelter of the Blue Ridge, nor lead his young 



Tlic Sorrows of Nancy. 2^ 

in its shadowy valleys, nor cleave the air of 
their misty tops, for the sharp crack of a rifle 
v/as heard, and he lay weltering in his blood. 
Nancy nttered no cry. She ran to Vvdiere he 
lay when he fell from the tree trunk and took 
him to her bosom, and his life-blood flowed 
above a heart tender and true in its love for 
him. Ker silent tears fell fast. A boy about 
fifteen came out of the thicket at the foot of 
the mountains and w^alked swiftly to Nancy's 
side. Her beauty kept him silent a moment, 
and then he said, w^ith a deprecating look, " I 
did not know you were here or I should not 
have killed the bird. There are thousands 
about here. I will catch you a young one, and 
you can put it in a cage." "' No," said Nancy, 
" another bird wouldn't feed his mate in that 
tree," pointing to the beech with her blood- 



26 The Sorrows of Nancy. 

stained hand. " She'll die; I know she will." 
And she wept ah'esh. Death and life are 
mysteries to a child, and death is a hopeless, 
awful mystery. A child, as well as his elders, 
perceives, when he is brought in contact with 
his icy breath, that gone never to return is 
written on all things that he touches with his 
invisible hand, and while his grief is of short 
duration, its unreasoning depths know no con- 
solation. At length the boy said cheerfully: 
"Come ! let us bury Cockrobin with the honors 
of war." Nancy was so much awed by the 
dress and manner of the boy that she laid her 
dead friend in his outstretched hand and fol- 
lowed him to the foot of the beech-tree with- 
out a word. There the boy hollowed a little 
grave and laid the dead bird in it and covered 
him over. Such a little, little grave as it was, 



The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 2j 

and only the grave of a little bird, for whom 
there was no resurrection (?), and who was not 
allowed to live out the span of life his Father, 
the Infinite One, had vouchsafed to him here. 
The boy turned to Nancy, saying, " Don't cry, 
little girl; I am sorry." Children understand 
one another readily, and are good judges of 
human nature. Nancy knew that the boy 
was sorry for what he had done, but she could 
not forgive him just yet. " What is your 
name, and where do you live? " " My name is 
Nancy, and I live in the cabin on the hill." 
'' My name is Andrew," said the boy, at part- 
ing. They went their different ways — they 
zvho zvere to inftuence one of the greatest nations 
of the earth. 

Nancy wxnt to Joult's cabin and found 
her smoking in her doorway, and wept as she 



28 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

poured out her griefs to her. Her intuitions 
were unerring. Joult was fuh of sympathy for 
her, and, after pufting a wdiile, she began the 
task of consolation. 

*' Lemme tell you, Nancy, dat robin you's 
so sorry fur gwine git annuddah mate fore 
long, lessen she's not lek people. Whut do 
she know 'bout deaf, en whut do she kuah? 
Why yistiddy I sot right heah in dis heah do' 
en I seed sumpen dat sot me a-thinkin'. You 
sees dat rail yondah? Well, suh ! yistiddy 
mawnin' a po' worm wur a humpin' hissef 
along on dat dah rail en a doin' fur hissef, en 
along come Mistew Robin a doin' fur hissef, 
too. He see dat worm en dat worm see him, 
en knowin' whut he wur attah he fall offen dat 
rail en hide hissef undah hit, en Mistew Robin 
he fiy off — he do. Treckly de worm say to 



The Sorrozi's of Nancy. 2g 

liissef, ' De robin done gone, now I gwine 
home.' He crawl out — he do — en gun fur to 
mek his way crost de log — when down come 
Mistew Robin en snatch him ball headed in a 
minnit. He tuck 'im — he do — en he roll 'im 
in de dus' — he roll 'im in de dus' — jes' lek Ole 
Moss hab de niggahs do de hogs in de hot 
wattah when dee done dead en cayan't holp 
deeselves." Joult puffed and puffed, and 
Nancy, thinking that she had finished, rose to 
go, when Joult resumed : " Yes, indeed, honey, 
people's mean en robins am mean, wdien he 
gits a chance. I boun' some ole robin done 
been a skylarkin' 'bout dat widdah long befo' 
dis, chile." 

That night Joult did not make her appear- 
ance at Lucy's cabin, and little Nancy retired 
early. It was her birthday, but she did not 



JO TJic Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

know it. It had always been a day of mourn- 
ing with Lucy as often as its anniversary came 
around. She did not spin that night, but sat 
before the dying fire, and grieved in silence. 
Old Nancy replenished the fire and sat down 
near Lucy, and put her hand on her bowed 
head and said kindly: " Lucy, tell your story; 
it will do you good. Tell it, Lucy, now that 
little Nancy is asleep; it will ease your mind. 
" There is little to tell. You know, Nancy, 
that the best blood of Virginia runs in little 
Nancy's veins, but that doesn't comfort me. I 
want her to know, when I am dead, and that 
will be before long, that I fell through my af- 
fections, and that I have suffered enough since 
that time to atone for the sins of the whole 
world. You know that Mr. M was hand- 
some, and far above me in station, and he 



The Sorrozvs of Nancy, ji 

used all the arts he was master of to entice 
me from the path of right. But, oh, Nancy, 
lie loved me — indeed he did — and I loved him. 
I should have been as willing to die for him 
as Christ was to die for the sins of the world, 
and God knows it. I proved it, for I became a 
living sacrifice for his sake and suffer more 
every day than if I died. The night before 
he went away he came here; he made the 
sweetest music on the bugle that was ever 
heard. It echoed among the valleys as if it 
came from Heaven and the angels were calling 
the dead — the sainted dead, Nancy — only they 
shall hear the angels at the last. He came in 
and took little Nancy in his arms and kissed 
her, and traced his own likeness in her fea- 
tures. He was tender and kind; and, oh, 
Nancy, I could not reproach him. I loved 



j^ The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

him, but I stood in awe of him as weU, and 
that made me love him all the better — I be- 
lieve. When he told me good-bye, he said : ' I 
am going- to the frontier, Lucy, to meet dan- 
ger, and it may be death : if I live I shall come 
l)ack and marry you and take you across the 
ocean, and there we shall educate little Nancy 
and be happy. If I fall and fill a soldier's 
grave, my fate will be better than I deserve 
for my treatment of you. Should I survive 
and return, you shall hear my bugle sound 
among the mountains long before you see me. 
Dead or alive, I icill come back to you, and 
the notes of the bugle shall call you to come to 
me, wherever I shall be ! " 

"And, Nancy, I never saw him again; but 
I have heard his bugle blowing and the 
sound dying away in a solemn wail among the 



Tlie Sorrozvs of Nancy. jj 

valleys of the Blue Ridge often and often, 
when you were asleep, and it seemed to call 
me." 

It was apparent to old Nancy that night, 
for the first time, that Lucy was failing, and 
that the end was drawing near. 

All the poetry little Nancy had ever read 
was written in the scenery about her mother's 
cabin. The mornings that broke calm and 
still in springtime over the tall peaks of the 
Blue Ridge, and the lands that lay below them 
were, to her, Idyls of Youth and Love. The 
young trees were her friends and the old 
ones were her counselors. Those that lay 
dead taught her a lesson of death that was 
not repulsive. The summer, with its burning 
sun and noontide brightness, told her of the 
prime of life, and the burden and heat of the 



^4- The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

day that came with mature years. Autumn 
sighed of hfe's decline and of a beauty which 
was fading, and had put on gorgeous colors to 
hide the ravages of time. Winter, cold and 
cheerless, to her, was an old man standing on 
the borders of a rushing river, whose dark and 
turbid waters, only, divided him from a 
Better Land. 

And what in all that world of grandeur 
spoke to Nancy of Immortality? Not the flower 
that dropped its seed and died. No. Another 
plant of its kind came, but not the same one. 
Gone ncz^er to return was written above its 
grave. She had often and often watched a 
worm make its own coffin; but she did not 
know that the worm lay down in it, sure of a 
resurrection. Another, wiser than she, taught 
her that long afterwards. 



The Sorro'ws of Nancy. 35 

One evening in the early fall old and young 
Nancy and Lucy sat under the beech-tree 
that was near the bridle-path at the foot of the 
hill. A grand gentleman, such as Nancy had 
never seen before, accompanied by Andrew, 
the boy who had killed the robin, rode up to 
where they were sitting and stopped. Andrew 
asked to be directed to the spring, as he 
wanted some water. Little Nancy's eyes were 
fixed on the old gentleman. His long hair 
was caught at the 1)ack of his head with a 
ribbon, and he was dressed in Continental 
style — that grand old fashion that made a 
common man look like a gentleman, and a 
gentleman look like a hero. He had on gold 
knee buckles, and his shoes w^ere adorned with 
the same precious metal. How long little 
Nancv would have stood there taking in every 



j6 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

detail of the old man's dress and features is not 
known. Andrew touched her, and she roused 
herself, and led the way to the spring. 

While the children were gone, the old gen- 
tleman said to Lucy: ""Whose child is that, 
Madame? " " Mine," said Lucy. " Who was 
her father? " said the old gentleman, fixing 
Lucy w^th his piercing black eyes. Lucy 
covered her worn face with her hands, and all 
the parts of her face and neck that were visible 
were covered by a deep blush. Nancy and 
Andrew soon returned, Andrew carrying a 
bucket of water with a white gourd in it, hav- 
ing a long handle — the only thing Lucy pos- 
sessed to serve water in. Andrew handed the 
old gentleman a gourdful of water; he held it 
in his hand and stared at little Nancy. What 
could have moved him so? Nancv's face was 



The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 37 

beautiful, but in looking at it the grand gen- 
tleman lost his self-control, and dashed the 
gourd to pieces on the rocky bridle-path be- 
low, and rode away. Andrew gave little 
Nancy a pitying look, and then mounted his 
horse and followed his father. '' Who is that, 
Aunt Nancy?" asked little Nancy. Old 
Nancy might have said truly, " That is your 
erandfather " ; but she said simply, ''Judge 

Chief-Justice M ." '' Is Andrew his son? " 

continued little Nancy. " No, he is the son 
of his adoption, and not of kin at all. He is 
the son of an Englishman, who came here and 

died, and Judge M made him his heir 

at law after his own son was killed on the 
frontier, some years ago." 

Lucy rose and tottered, as she walked 
slowly to the cabin. She had a distressing 



j8 The Sorrows of Nancy. 

cough, and was growing weaker and thinner 
day by day. When the leaves began to fall she 
grew rapidly worse. She had let go the anchor 
of life and was drifting away. It was soon ap- 
parent, even to little Nancy, that Lucy was 
very ill, and Lucy knew and rejoiced that she 
was soon to make her last earthly atonement 
for the sin of her youth. Old Nancy and Joult 
prepared such simples as they had been taught 
were remedies for consumption, but they failed 
to relieve the sufiferer. Little Nancy was 
thoughtful beyond her years, as solitary chil- 
dren always' are. She had learned many les- 
sons from mother Nature, but nothing had 
taught her to face her mother's death. She 
could not bear to contemplate such a calamity 
as her loss. 

The great events of this life are solitary. 



The Sorrows of Nancy. jp 

Every human being comes from the shore of a 
past eternity alone, passes through Time — 
a stranger in a strange land — goes alone and 
without his volition into a future eternity, 
and there none but the dead may follow him. 

The grief one feels for the dead must be 
borne alone; iniaided one must conquer it, or 
it must conquer him, and no man may help 
him. None can win honor for another and 
none can lead a blameless life, except for him- 
self. The good deeds of one's ancestors may 
reflect honor upon a man; but, if he would 
really possess honor, Jic nmst zvin it for him- 
self. It took the Son of God to atone for 
the sins of the world, and He suffered death 
alone. 

Poor little Nancy! She had but three 
friends in the world, and now she was about 



40 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

to lose the best one of them. Out of her 
mother's presence she wept bitter tears. 

Her dying mother lay on her hard, straw 
bed awaiting the solemn change she knew 
must come, and her one thought was Nancy. 
"Oh, little Nancy! What will become of 
little Nancy? " Her sufferings were intense. 
Her bones wore through their covering, and 
her body was ready for the grave, while her 
soul retained its healthful vigor. " These 
vile bodies! " How they serve the souls that 
inhabit them ! They often and often shut 
them up in silence and darkness — eye and ear 
refusing to do their office — and the poor soul, 
in its watchtower of clay, is unable to signal 
to those about it, and is glad to go to the 
deeper darkness and longer silence of the 
grave, even if the grave should mean ever- 
lasting sleep. 



The Sorroivs of Nancy. 4.1 

The anniversary of the Christ child's 
birth brought release to Lucy. She said to 
old Nancy on Christmas-Eve, " Stay with me 
to-night, Nancy, I shall be at rest in the 
morning." 

The moon shone high in the heavens, and 
about midnight Lucy asked Joult to open 
the door. A long track of moonlight crossed 
the floor and touched the dying woman's face. 
She lifted her wasted arms, as if embracing 
some one, and her face was radiant with love, 
and so her soul passed — unseen by mortal 
eyes — into the immensity of space. Just as 
she died, old Nancy and little Nancy and Joult 
heard the sound of a bugle dying away 
among the dark valleys of the Blue Ridge. 

Lucy was buried under the shade of the 
beech-tree. Slaves made her grave, and the 



42 The Sorrows of Nancy, 

rude coffin in which her body lay. They 
placed the clods of the valley above the wreck 
of what had once been a beautiful, innocent 
g-irl, and they did it reverently and tenderly. 
There was no minister to read at the grave 
of this poor outcast this most sublime passage 
ever written : 

'' I am the resurrection and the life, saith 
the Lord : he that believeth in Me, though he 
were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever 
livcth and bclicvcth in inc shall never die.'' 

The dome of Heaven was her mausoleum 
and above her grave was whispered : " I am 
the resurrection and the life," and the winds 
answered Resurgam. 

Through the winter that followed Lucy's 
death old Nancy and little Nancy barely lived. 
Joult divided her scanty store with them, and 




Uijl///^^'-,j^rf,j,.it#i<?' 



^'-"'^^^^umm' 



^^^#wrSS*S 



TJic Sorroz^'s of Nancy. 45 

in every way acted the part of a Christian to 
these poverty-stricken tenants of the wayside 
cabin. But the woh' hovv-led at their door, day 
and night, and they were often brought face 
to face with that gaunt visitant, and alone they 
could not have driven him away. 

Spring came early that year, and was 
unusually bright and warm. The mate of the 
" Widder Robin " built his nest in the beech- 
tree and sang as of yore, but his notes were a 
dirge to Xancy, for he sang above her 
mother's grave. 

As the season advanced and the wild 
flowers bloomed, Xancy took the brush that 
had been piled above her mother's resting- 
place to prevent the stock from trampling it, 
and planted flowers about it, and built a rude 
fence around it, and knelt reverently there to 



4^ The Sorrozvs of N^ancy. 

pray, morning and night. The Hghts that 
guided this daughter of the wilderness were 
dim, but the All-Seeing eyes beheld her. Her 
greatest trouble was that she could not sepa- 
rate her mother's soul n'om her body — her 
reason refused to do it, and her grief had in it 
a tinge of despair. 

Joult came down to Lucy's grave one 
evening, when Nancy was weeping by it and 
sat down beside her to offer consolation. 

" Nancy," said she, '' youah mamy's grave 
look monstus purty sence you done put de 
flowers on hit. En I tell you whut ! she gwine 
sleep jes' es well right dah — undah dat tree — 
es ef she hab a great big mountment on 'er — 
en she gwine hear Gable when he blow jis es 
well en git out betteh den ef de stones hat- 
tah fly when she wake up. I feels fur you, 
honey, I rally does, chile." 



The Sorrows of Nancy. 4.7 



PART II. 



How old Nancy and little Nancy came to 
Kentucky, and with whom is not known. 
Certain it is, however, that in the year 18 — 
they were living, with other women, in a cabin 
on the line that divides Clark county from 
Bourbon. After living in sight of the Blue 
Ridge, no scenery would ever be complete to 
Nancy without mountains in the distance. 
Standing in the cabin door, she might see as 
fair a prospect as the earth holds — rolling 
meadow lands, covered with the richest blue 
grass, shaded by trees of oak, maple, beech, 
and elm that had taken centuries to mature, 
and along Strode's Creek towered, then, as 



^8 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

now, the giant sycamore. There were no farm 
houses in the near vista, but on the air 
was borne the hum of the water-mill, 
whose wheel the waters of Strode's Creek 
turn from sunup till sundown. It is built of 
stone, and its quaint structure adorned, and 
still adorns, a scene of surpassing loveliness. 
This mill was named Thatcher's Mill in honor 
of its builder and owner. 

If Strode's Creek — often Strode's River — 
could speak, it could throw light upon a cer- 
tain story that will now always remain a 
mystery. But it does not speak : it murmurs — 
murmurs through the pleasant lands, as it had 
done hundreds and hundreds of years before 
the white man appeared on its banks to plant 
the standards of civilization and freedom. It 
murmurs and complains and runs its way to 



The Sorrows of Nancy. 4^ 

meet other streams that flow onward to the 
sea, and are swallowed up in the greater mys- 
teries of its unfathomable depths that shall 
keep their secrets till the sea and the grave 
give up their dead. 

One morning in October of the year 18 — 
the winds were shrill and rustled the leaves 
as if they were tired of their clinging to their 
friends, the trees, and making a pretence of 
living, and sent them whirling and eddying to 
the ground, as if they bade them get into 
their graves and make way for the new, young 
kings of spring that were soon to reign in 
their stead. 

Old Nancy helped little Nancy with a 
bundle of soiled clothes and a great iron kettle 
down to Strode's Creek, near the mill. Old 
Nancy, it was apparent, was getting infirm, 



50 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

and her devotion to little Nancy seemed the 
one link that still bound her to life. The old 
woman put a stone under each leg of the 
kettle, and, while little Nancy was gone to the 
cabin for live coals to start a fire under it, she 
filled it with water from the creek. Young 
Nancy started the fire, drew her lythe form 
to its full height, and looked to the East, and 
the scene before her faded away, and in its 
stead the cabin on the mountain side w^as 
before her, and the mists of a spring morning 
were rolling aw^ay from the distant peaks of 
the Blue Ridge. She could see her mother's 
grave and could hear the birds sing as she 
had heard them in spring times long past. 
Old Nancy regarded her with doting fondness, 
then approached her, and took her in her em- 
brace, saying : " You look like your poor 



Tlie Sorrozvs of Nancy. 51 

mother, Nancy, but more like your father to- 
day than I ever saw you look before. Some- 
thing's going to happen." Old Nancy hob- 
bled off to the cabin, and young Nancy stood 
where she had left her, still with her face in 
the direction of Virginia, and thinking of her 
mother's grave at the foot of the mountains. 
When the fire began to crackle and burn, it 
seemed to recall Nancy to a sense of her duty, 
and the day's work before her, and she took up 
a bucket and went to Strode's Creek. As she 
stooped over the stream, her brown, curling 
hair fell down and swept the water, and in 
that attitude she v/as struck motionless with 
her eyes fixed on an upper window of 
Thatcher's Mill. She had heard Andrew's 
voice, and knew it after years of separation. 
She listened, and, without filling her bucket, 



^2 The Sorrozi's of Nancy. 

she rose to flee. As she stood up, Andrew's 
face appeared at the window. Nancy's dress 
was ragged and worn, but Andrew knew the 
fair face and form, that nothing, not even 
death, could disguise from his recognition, 
and he was beside her in a moment, had 
clasped her hand, and looked into her eyes 
with something very like love, and with un- 
mistakable admiration in his own dark eyes. 

The guardian angel of the outcast is tardy 
in his duty, and often forgetful of it entirely. 
Death is the only thing in the universe that is 
as strong as love. Why did he not do battle 
for Nancy on that fatal day, when she met 
Andrew, and claim her for his own, and save 
her from what followed? 

Nothing in the slumberous air of that 
October dav warned Nancy. She did as 



The Sorrozvs of Nancy. S3 

women have ever done, since the beginning 
of time — loved her affinity, no matter in what 
station she found him. 

Washington Irving says : " A w^oman's 
whole life is a history of the affections." If 
that be a woman's life, what is a man's? Is the 
first half of it a history of unbridled passion, 
and the last half a record of unavailing regret 
and remorse? 

If life were not such a serious puzzle, it 
would be enough to make one smile to read 
the discussions between man and woman as 
to the superiority of the mental powers in man 
to those in woman. Men and women, intel- 
lectually, are not alike, and, therefore, may 
not be compared; as things dissimilar differ, 
not in degree, but in kind. A man has reason, 
which is the power that enables him to ratioci- 



S4- The Sorrows of Nancy. 

nate : a woman has intuition, that stands side 
by side with inspiration. A man toils to a 
conclusion, and when he gets there, he can 
point out step by step the road he came, and 
prides himself on the mental strength he has 
wasted and the way he has marked with his 
blood-stained footprints. He exults over 
woman, because he is stronger than she, and 
because he has traveled where she can never 
follow. Has he? Has he really walked where 
she can never tread? Yes — when he hews and 
builds and exerts his physical strength, only. 
But the empire of mind is woman's sphere. A 
woman's mind flies to a conclusion, and the 
path by which she arrives at it is like the way 
of a bird in the trackless air that is lost for- 
ever, but her deductions are as infallible as 
man's. Man, with his attribute of reason, and 



The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 55 

woman, with her swift intuitions, when joined 
together, after being drawn together by 
mutual affinity, make a complete spiritual cir- 
cle, as God intended they should do, and each 
is the complement of the other, neither the 
superior. 

Nancy washed the clothes and hung them 
to dry on the bushes; then went to a spring, 
which has since been called '' Nancy's Well," 
and sat down to rest, leaning against a tree. 
She was never able in after life to tell whether 
she cognized what appeared to her with her 
waking or her sleeping vision. 

She was thinking of Andrew, and of how 
handsome he looked as he rode away to 
Winchester, and smiled as she remembered his 
earnest promise to return, when all at once 
there shown out of the shadows of twilight, 



^6 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

that were gathering", the face of a man. The 
face looked hke Andrew's, but not so striking 
as his, except in expression. The eyes were 
tender and infinitely sad and prophetic. Then 
she saw, or thought she saw, a sea of human 
faces, all turned one way, and the man lay 
dead, his loving eyes closed forever by the 
hand of an assassin. 

At that time, Winchester and Clark county 
were infants in their swadling clothes, but 
they were being trained and educated in the 
way they should go by Robert Elkin and the 
Traveling Baptist Church. How few men, in 
this world, have literally gone about doing 
good as did Robert Elkin — who rests now 
forever from his labors. His grave is in an 
open field, and soon the traces of it will be 
lost. 



The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 57 

One night late in this same fall there was 
preaching at Thatchers Mill, and the old 
divine, Robert Elkin, conducted the services. 
A preacher, in that early day, always drew 
large, if not attentive, audiences. There were 
no places of amusement in Clark county at 
that time, and men and women flocked to 
every place that promised excitement or 
recreation. Since civilization has spread its 
wings over Clark county the young citizens 
and citizenesses still long after the diversion 
w^hich change of place may bring, and a party 
of young people will pay large sums of money 
to get away from civilized life and to play 
the savage in tents — make-believe wigwams — 
on the Kanawha River, in Virginia — proving, 
clearly, that a streak of savage blood still 
lingers in the veins of all the children of men. 



^8 The Sorroivs of Nancy. 

Robert Elkin's text that night was this 
sentence : " Christ was a man of sorrows and 
acquainted with grief." The truths of the 
Gospel of peace on earth and good will to man 
are not perceived by the same vision that 
takes in the material things of this life. In- 
tuition is the eyes of the soul, and faith is 
purely subjective. Robert Elkin's spiritual 
eyes had been opened. He had never heard of 
Confucius, who taught a religion similar to 
the Christian religion, five hundred years be- 
fore Christ was born — " The Light of Asia " 
was nothing to him. He told the simple story 
of Christ's birth, life, death, and resurrection, 
and the people were moved to tears. Nancy 
heard him and wept for joy — that she should 
see her mother again. Andrew was there, 
but his spiritual eyes were closed, that he 



The Sorrozvs of^ Nancy. ^g 

might not see. When the sermon was done, 
and a stirring song began, in which the whole 
congregation united in singing, an old negro 
woman rose up in a corner of the mill, clap- 
ped her hands, and cried in a loud voice : 
" Gawd bless the whole world." Then Nancy 
saw Joult, the friend and comforter of her 
childhood. 

When the people began to disperse, some 
one took a candle to light the preacher to his 
horse, and Joult saw and recognized Andrew 
hiding in the shadow^ of the mill, as if waiting 
for some one. She paused to watch him. 
Wlien the people were all gone, she saw him 
leave his hiding place, and swiftly follow 
Nancy. 

" Dah, now^ ! " said Joult, ''look at dat 
snake in de grass. I gwine 'prove Nancy 
when I sees her — dat I is." 



6o The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

The next morning little Nancy found 
Joult and after greetings were over, Joult 
sat down and began to talk: "Yes, indeed, 
honey, I git along monstus poly attah Ole 
Moss die. I hattah be sole, long ob de yuttah 
niggahs, en den de man whut buy de cows en 
sheep whut I tuck kure ob — he lef me in de 
cabin by my lone lorn sef — dout es much 
es a cat er a dog fuh to keep me comply. 
Peared to me when de night ud come down 
on de Blue Ridge dat de whole worle wur 
open befo' me. I do declah, when de win' 
chase de mist up en down de valley, hit look 
lek de dead done got outen de graves en come 
to judgemint. Youah mamy's grave wur a 
heap ob companv fur me, too. De las' time I 
seed hit wur in de fall — befo' I came to Kain- 
tuck — en hit wur covered wid leaves red en 



TJic Sorrozvs of Nancy. 6i 

brown en gole; de sun wur goin' down behind 
de mountains en peared fur to kiss whur de 
po' gal slep. But, Nancy, I gwine tell you; I 
seed dat Ander a sneakin' en a hidin' roun' de 
mill las' night till attah de people all git away, 
en den tek out attah you. You mine whut I 
tells you bouten a nasty, brute beas' ob a man 
wha' am feared en shamed fur to be long ob 
a gal 'fore uddah folks. 'Omen folks — more 
obspecially." 

;!< j!; jI: 5|i ;;< ;jc ^ ^ 

Inlow, the miller, and Andrew sat under a 
tree not far from the mill, on a fallen log, and 
whittled sticks and meditated, while all about 
them floated the incense of spring, and in the 
tree-tops the birds sang fragments from the 
Oratorio of the Resurrection. 

Inlow had something on his mind; but, as 



62 The Sorrovos of Nancy. 

he looked at the young patrician beside him, 
he hesitated to make his thoughts an entity 
by embodying them in words. He sat in 
silence and, unconsciously, perhaps, shaped 
the stick he was cutting into a dagger, and, 
holding it up before Andrew, said : " If this 
wood were steel, you had better plunge it into 
Nancy's heart than stay here longer; if your 
intention is not to marry her. She loves you, 
and is beneath you. I hope that you are a 
man of honor." Andrew gave Inlow a 
searching look, and continued the use of his 
knife, in silence. 

Why did Andrew linger in Kentucky? He 
rode past the few cabins, that composed 
Winchester, and bright eyes were gladdened 
at sight of the gallant, handsome youth. 
Many of the first settlers of Winchester were 



The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 6j 

educated, refined people, and Andrew enjoyed 
their society; but, if Winchester had been 
wiped out of existence, what then? He would 
still have lingered around Thatcher's Mill, as 
he had done for months. 

Young men are not wicked an fond; they 
seldom, however, do more than skim over the 
surface of their motives — seldom or never 
dive to their depths to learn if truth be at the 
bottom. 

Andrew rose at length, and walked in the 
opposite direction to Nancy's cabin, and sat 
down. He could hear his horse pawing the 
ground under the tree to which he had hitched 
him; he could hear the doves coo, coo, as they 
built their nests — he was restless and unhappy. 
He saw old Nancy and the women who lived 
with her ride off in the direction of Win- 



6^ The Sorrows of Nancy. 

Chester, and then (Hd what he had often 
done before — went to the cabin, and found 
young Nancy sitting in the door looking in 
the direction of Virginia. As he sat down on 
the grass — not far from her — he thought that 
few^ young girls could bear the close inspec- 
tion to which he subjected her as he sat there. 
She smiled and her teeth shone milk white; 
her cheek w^as dappled with red, like a ripe 
peach; but her hair w^as her glory — long, 
luxuriant, and of the richest brown. 

Are there inherited traits — inate kjiowl- 
edge of the properties? Who shall say? An- 
drews while looking at Nancy, said abruptly, 
watching the effect of his words : '' I must re- 
turn to Virginia soon." Nancy turned pale, 
and the light died in her dark eyes, but she 
struggled hard to keep the tears back and sue- 



The Sorrows of Nancy. 6§ 

ceeded. Nancy had a proud old ancestress, 
whom she might not claim, from whom, per- 
haps, she had inherited self-control and un- 
conquerable pride, for she said in a voice as 
indifferent as Andrew's ow^n : " When do you 
leave?" ''Soon," he replied, "my departure 
depends on the surveyors." 

That man never lived who, if he heard a 
girl loved him, and were convinced of the fact 
before he heard it from another, did not seek 
the girl and prove it again and again, to the 
satisfaction of his own inordinate vanity. 
" Vanitas vanitatis " should be written above 
the story of every man's love — which is a mix- 
ture of passion and egotism. There are many 
very honorable exceptions, but the rest are 
a lot, and all named Abelard. 

Nancy said, as if to change the subject, " I 



66 The Sorrows of Nancy. 

should give half my life for one sight of the 
Blue Ridge. Is it memory that brings back 
the scenes I love so well before me in dreams? 
I seem to be there. I can feci the winds blow 
and hear the birds sing. Awake, I can shut 
my eyes and see the red-bud-tree and its taller 
friends bowing to one another as they used 
to do in spring times long passed." She 
paused and resumed, after a silence : '' I shall 
never see the place again — not even my 
mother's grave." She wept bitterly. Did 
Nancy weep for a sight of her mother's grave? 
Andrew did not know, but he was determined 
to find out. 

" Should you be glad to go to Virginia 
with me, Nancy? I am going soon; my busi- 
ness here is almost ended." 

As Andrew said this, he watched her cheek 



TJic Sorroz^'s of Nancy. 6y 

glow, and the light leap into her sad eyes. The 
blood of her haughty, old ancestors, that ran 
like fire in her veins, prompted her reply — " I 
do not understand you. Hou) should I go zvitli 
you? " The boy was abashed and puzzled by 
the proud look Nancy gave him, and he smiled 
to himself angrily as he thought : " She would 
hide her heart from me — even she — when I 
might have any girl for the asking." 

A woman is braver than a man while ex- 
citement lasts, and could lead a forlorn hope 
or storm a citadel; but she could not beleaguer 
one — it takes a man to do that. 

Andrew rose to go. '' Good-bye, Nancy; 
I may not see you again." '' Good-bye," said 
Nancy, simply, and then sat down in the door- 
way — unable to stand up or keep the tears 
back. At sight of Nancy's tears, Andrew re- 



68 The Sorrozi's of Nancy. 

seated himself, took off his hat, pushed the 
Ijlack curls from his forehead, and smiled 
triumphantl}'. He was so rejoiced that he had 
gained a sure knowledge of Nancy's love for 
him that he told her that he loved her de- 
votedly, and that she was beautiful, and sealed 
his statements with a kiss that was divine, 
Nancy thought, for it was the first kiss of her 
first love. 

Late that evening Andrew came to the 
cabin again, and, finding the women returned, 
he proposed a walk with Nancy. They 
walked by Strode's Creek, that knows, but 
keeps its own secrets and sends them to 
their grave in the ocean. They sat long by 
" Nancy's Well " — so long that the moon 
made her image in the water to warn them 
that the hour was late. The owl wailed from 



TJic Sorrozvs of Nancy. 6g 

his solitary watch-tower in the distant wood, 
and mourned to the spirit of darkness that all 
was not well under the solemn stars. The 
guardian angel of Nancy was fast asleep. 

Weeks went by after this, and Andrew did 
not return to Thatcher's Mill. Nancy went, 
as in a dream, about the duties she was com- 
pelled to perform, her whole being lost in the 
yearning to see her lover once again. She 
could bear the suspence his absence caused 
no longer, and determined to go to Winches- 
ter. She persuaded old Nancy to borrow two 
horses from Abraham Inlow, the miller, and 
to accompany her. 

Nancy dressed herself in a gown Joult had 
given her, and which had belonged to Joult's 
former mistress. It was made of fine material, 
in a fashion long by passed; but it fitted her 



yo The Sorrozi's of Nancy. 

slender form to perfection, and its dark folds 
1)roiight out the rich tints of her beautiful 
complexion. Old Nancy brought out a bon- 
net of immense size — made of Leghorn, and 
yellow as gold from age. This bonnet was a 
relic from old Nancy's wardrobe in better 
days. Little Nancy put it on, and her young- 
face looked all the prettier from its great 
depths. Dressed, she ran to " Nancy's Well," 
and as she saw her image in the pellucid 
water, she was surprised at the transformation 
fine clothes had wrought. As she stood by the 
s]:>ring, she might have been painted as the 
]:)ersonification of beautiful youth. She should 
ha\'e l)een ])ainted then, for she never looked 
like that again in all the world — her heart 
was broken that day. 

Old Nancy and young Nancy hitched their 



The Sorrozvs of Nancy. yi 

horses on the outskirts of the hamlet 
of Winchester, and old Nancy sat down under 
a tree to smoke, and young Nancy began 
walking about the streets of the village, so 
lately laid ofT and named. More than one man 
looked, and turned to look again, at the beau- 
tiful face — radiant in the depths of that old 
bonnet. Just as she passed the log court- 
house she saw Andrew approaching her with 
a lady on his arm — a real lady, as Nancy knew. 
Andrew passed her without a word; but not 
without a sign, for his face was as pale as 
death \\'ould ever make it. " What lovely 
barbarian is that? " Nancy heard the lady ask. 
Andrew's answer was lost to her, but not the 
meaning of his manner as he passed her. No; 
it was as clear to her as it was to God. It 
taught her that she was an alien, and an out- 



y2 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

cast forever from society. It whispered an- 
other truth to Nancy in two words, these — 
fallen! forsaken! Oh! angels of mercy, look 
down on this deluded girl. 

When young Nancy returned to old Nancy 
and said: '' Come; take me home; I am sick 
unto death," her white face — from which the 
light of youth had forever fled — confirmed her 
words. 

Smile, if you will, you human beings of 
coarse nature, who do not believe that love — 
unrequited — as surely kills the sensitive girl, 
whom it wounds as the plowshare does the 
tender violet it upturns to the frosts of early 
spring. 

Arrived at Thatcher's Mill, a young man — 
whom Nancy had never seen before — assisted 
her from her horse, and, although her face was 



The Sorrows of Nancy. /j 

white as marble, its beauty led him captive 
ever afterwards. Nancy saw and saw him not. 
She walked as one in a dream. Between her 
and all things of this life there was a hand- 
some young face — pale as death and almost as 
cold and stern of expression. She hastened to 
the cabin, took to her bed, and lay there until 
midnight. When all were asleep, she stole to 
" Nancy's Well," and sat down by it, the 
image of despair — she who early that morning 
might have been painted as the personifica- 
tion of beautiful youth. 

Two years went by, and all that time 
Nancy's new lover pressed his suit through 
Abraham Inlow. Nancy had ceased to live — 
only drifted with the tide of time. She con- 
sented to become the wife of Thomas Lincoln. 
Thev were not married in Clark count v, but 



74 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

in . When they left Thatcher's Mill 

to be married, there sat between them a child, 
whose name was Abraham. He was a remark- 
able-looking child, even at his tender age. 
In after years his face had a rugged, melan- 
choly grandeur, that once seen could never 
be forgotten. His eyes had an expression 
that was '* infinitely sad and prophetic," as if 
they looked on Death. Taken as a whole, his 
face looked like the Sphinx, that might be an 
image of death in its most sublime majesty — 
waiting for all the generations of men to pass 
before him, that he might wither them into 
nothingness by a look. 

Nancy died young, and her soul has long 
since confronted the soul of the man, without 
whom Abraham would never have been. She 
died and was buried in Indiana. She was so 



The Sorrozvs of Nancy. JS 

far honored above her mother — in her death — 
that Robert Elkin read above her resting- 
place this most subUme passage ever written . 
" I am the resurrection and the hfe, saith 
the Lord : he that beHeveth in me, though he 
were dead, yet shall he live : and whosoever 
liveth and believeth on Me shall never die." 
Nancy Lived and Believed. 



Affidavits. 77 



AFFIDAVITS. 



The affiant, L. Boyd, states that a few days 
after the assassination of President Lincohi, 
her father, Rev. Samuel Rogers, born near 
Charlotte Courthouse, Va., in the year 
1789 (a soldier in the war of 181 2, and minister 
of the Christian Church in Kentucky and 
other States from the time, or shortly after 
the time, when Alexander Campbell founded 
the Disciples' Church, until 1877, when he 
died), said to her: "The grandmother of 
Al^raham Lincoln was called by the several 
names of Lucy Hanks, Hornback, and 
Sparrow. Nancy, Lincoln's mother, was the 
child of Lucy Hanks, Hornback, or Spar- 
row and a son of Judge John Marshall, of 



j8 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

Virginia. Nancy Hanks, Hornback, or Spar- 
row was l)orn near Lynchburg, Va., and in 
sight of the Bkie Ridge Mountains, and at 
the foot of them her mother, Lucy, hes buried. 

Nancy's father — son of Judge IMarshah — 
was kihed in " border warfare." 

Lincohi's father was the adopted son 
(whether by law or not, I do not know) of the 
same Judge Marshall, of Virginia, mentioned 
above, and was the son of an Englishman, 
who fought and was killed in the same battle 
in which the said Nancy's father perished. 
Abraham (afterwards called Abraham Lin- 
coln) was born near Thatcher's Alill, on or 
near the line that divides Clark county from 
Bourbon county, Ky., and was born out 
of wedlock. I have often seen the place where 
he was born. 



Amdavits. 79 

Rev. Samuel Rogers is dead, as above 
stated, but in his life he knew Kentucky and 
Virginia well, and was among the first men 
who preached the new religion in those two 
States. 

When I was called to Winchester, Ky., 
April, 1894, to wTite the history of Winchester 
and Clark county, the present of Win- 
chester, Ky., John — . , said to me: 

'' Did you know that Abraham Lincoln w^as 
born in Clark county, near Thatcher's Alill?" 
" No," said I, " but I have heard it." Mayor 

continued : "' When Hay and Nicholay 

l)egan writing the history of Mr. Lincoln, some 

one wTote to Mat. , in their interest, 

asking him ( ) to write what he knew 

concerning Mr. Lincoln's birth-place. 

came to me and told me that Mr. Lincoln was 



8o The Sorrows of Nancy. 

born near Thatcher's Mill, out of wedlock, and 
said : " Shall I tell zvhat I know? " " No," said 
I, " keep it to yourself. You might get into 

trouble." did not write what he knew 

in response to the inquiries of Hay and 
Nicholay. 

Mayor John — . repeated the above 

statement to me before Mr. John 

, formerly editor of the Winchester 



Sun (Republican newspaper), and candidate 

for Congress against W. M. in the 

election to fill the unexpired term in Congress 

of Hon. Marcus , deceased, , 1894. 

Judge W. M. , M. C, met me 

before the Citizens' Bank of Winchester, and 
I said to him : " Judge, I suppose that you — 
like all old residents of Clark — have heard that 
Mr. Lincoln was born near Thatcher's Mill, 



Affidavits. 8i 
and born out of wedlock? " " Oh, yes," re- 
plied Judge ; " Senator told me 

all about it." " Will you give me your written 
statement to that effect? " said L " Oh, yes; 
at any time," he said, very pleasantly. 

In a few weeks after this meeting I went 
to him after his written statement. He put 
me off on one trifling pretext or another, until 
I followed him up and said to him : " Judge 

^ didn't you tell me that Senator 

told you that Mr. Lincoln was born out of 
wedlock, near Thatchers Mill?" "Yes," 

said Judge ; ''I told you that; but, 

after thinking about the matter, I do not want 
to be in it." 

Colonel R. N. , James , son 

of Chief-Justice , and many others— 

as responsible as they — confirmed the state- 



82 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

ments made in the three affidavits of Dr. H. 

, Wilham , and Daniel 

. I think I could get a thousand affi- 
davits in Kentucky to prove the statements in 
those I now possess. ""''^* ^ u^lyrt^ J 
^'"^ LUCINDA BOYD. 



State of Kentucky, \ 



c- 
Si 

Fayette County. 

Subscribed and sworn to before me by 
Lucinda Boyd, this September 25, 1895. 
[SEAL.] CLAUDE CHINN, 

Clerk Fayette County Court, Kentucky. 



Exact copy of affidavit of Judge B. J. 
— , who for sixteen years was Chief Jus- 



tice of Kentucky: 

I am ninety years old. I was Judge of 



Affidavits. 8j 

the Court of Appeals of Kentucky for sixteen 
years, and then retired on account of ad- 
vancing years. 

I was graduated from Transylvania Uni- 
versity, Kentucky, in 1825. I read law with 
John , Chief Justice of Kentucky; ob- 
tained license to practice law in 1827. My 
legal and professional career has extended over 
a period of sixty years. In all that time I have 
never heard, among my legal friends (and I 
know nearly all the lawyers, old and young,_ -jo- 
in the State) the fact of Abraham Lincoln's 
illegitimacy disputed. 

The late Colonel , a prominent man 

in the Kentucky Legislature, said to me : '' I 

heard , then a resident of Harrods- 

burg, Ky., say that he had married Nancy 
Hornback, Hanks, or Sparrow in Washington 



8^ The Sorrows of Nancy. 

county, Ky., to Thomas Lincoln, and that at 
the time of the marriage of the said Nancy 
Hornl^ack, Hanks, or Sparrow and Thomas 
Lincohi that Nancy's son Abraham (after- 
wards called Lincoln) was a boy large enough 
to run around." 

A lady, who said her maiden name was 
Hanks* and place of residence Massachusetts 
(T think), came to me last summer and asked 
nie if 1 had not heard the Hankses, of Mont- 
gomery, say that Abraham Lincoln's mother 
was named Hanks. I told her no, that T never 
had, l»iil had always heard that her name was 
Hornback. She is the only one I ever heard 
express a doubt of Abraham Lincoln's 

illegitimacy. 

B. J. , 



Ex-Chief Justice of Kentucky. 



* Mrs. Tarl)an who wrote tlie history of Mr. Ivincoln 
in McClure's Magazine. 



Amdavits. Sj 

I am willing to make oath to the fore- 
going statement before any officer authorized 

to administer oaths. 

B. J. . 



Subscribed to and sworn to before me by 
B. J. , this 24th day of January, 1896. 

[SEAL.] DOUGLAS DAY, 

Notary Public. 



In Herndon's book, now almost out of 
print, entitled " A History of Abraham Lin- 
coln," this passage is to be found: 

(Air. Herndon was the law partner of Mr. 
Lincoln in Springfield, 111.) 

'' We were driving together one day, and 
Mr. Lincoln said to me : ' God bless my 
mother— all I am I owe to her— she was 



86 The Sorrows of Nancy. 

illegitimate, but the best blood of Virginia 
ran in her veins. ^ " 

From telling that truth Mr. Herndon's 
book was scorned and tabooed. 



Mt. Sterling, Ky., January 23, 1896. 
To Whom It May Concern: 

I am thirty-nine years old, have been an 
attorney at law since 1881, engaged in the 
practice of law at Mt. Sterling; have been 
Prosecuting Attorney for Montgomery 
county, Ky., and am now Special Judge of 
Montgomery Circuit Court. Have been 
several years associated in the same office with 

Ex-Chief Justice B. J. , and have known 

him well since 1880. He was for sixteen years 
Judge of the Kentucky Court of Appeals, and, 



Affidavits. 87 

until now, or very recently, he has been in 
active practice of the law, and is now in the 
full possession of all his faculties, and won- 
derfully and remarkably well preserved, both 
in mind and body. He was, until the last few 
m.onths, president of the Exchange Bank of 
Mt. Sterling, Ky., which is in good condition, 
this 23d of January, 1896. 

H. M. , 

Special Judge Montgomery Circuit Court. 



I regard Judge B. J. as a man of 

sound mind, and that he is of remarkable 
vigor, both mentally and physically, for a man 

of his years. 

H. P. , 

Cashier Exchange Bank. 



88 The Sorroics of Nancy. 

The affiant, Thomas , states that he 

was born May ii, 1802, in Bourbon county, 
Ky., near North Middleton, and near 
Thatcher's Mill, which is on the line which 
separates Clark county from Bourbon county, 
in the said State aforesaid. 

He further states that he has heard re- 
sponsible persons say, and that it was the cur- 
rent and generally accepted belief, and familiar 
to him ever since boyhood, that a certain male 
child named Abraham, and called Abraham 
Lincoln, was born near said Thatcher's ]\Iill, 
in Bourbon county, and that he was the child 
of Xancy Hanks, Hornback, or Sparrow, and a 
young man who came from Virginia. IMany 
persons have told me that they saw the said 
Nancy and Thomas Lincoln leave Thatcher's 
Mill with the said child Abraham sitting be- 



Affidavits. 8g 

tween them, and they were said to be start- 
ing- for another county in Kentucky to get 
married and reside. 

Witness my mark, this October 7, 1895. 

His 

THOMAS (X) . 

Witness : Mark. 

H. G. Brattom. 
John I. Fisher. 

Subscribed and sworn to by Thomas 
, October 7, 1895, in the presence of 



H. G. Bratton and John I. Fisher. 

[seal.] ED. P. BEAN, Jr., 

Notary Pubhc. 



Affidavit of the late Hubbard , M. D. : 

I have heard from reHable sources ever 



go The Sorrozi'S of Xaiicy. 

since I was a boy that Abraham (^afterwards 
cahed Abraham Lincohi) was born at 
Thatcher's ]\lill ont of wedlock, and that he 
was the son of Xancy Hanks. Hornback. or 
Sparrow, who Hved with other women, near 
Thatcher's ^^lilL and of a young man from 
\'irginia. 1 have seen persons, after I was 
grown, who had seen Thomas Lincohi and 
Xancy. the aforesaid, leave Thatcher's ]\Iill 
with Abraham sitting between them, on their 
way to be married elsewhere. 

Abraham Inlow and one Roberts paid 
Thomas Lincoln to many the aforesaid 
Xancv. because of her poverty and youth, and 
their pity for X'ancy on account of them. I 
am eighty-three years old. I have been a 
practicing physician in ^^'inchester and Clark 
county. Ky.. and in other places for more 



Affidavits. gi 

than 50 (fifty) years, and have heard the story 
a hundred times. 

HUBBARD , M. D. 

Subscribed to and sworn to before me, this 
the 24th day of September, 1895. 

F. B. HODGKINS, 
Examiner for Clark County, Ky. 



Affidavit of WilHam 



William , born in Winchester 

sixty-nine years ago of parents who had lived 
there since their youth, said to me, in the 
presence of witnesses : 

" Daniel Thatcher, owner of Thatcher's 
Alill, built al)out the year 1800, said to me in 
presence Abraham Lincoln (so 



g2 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 

called) was born near Thatcher's Mill, not in 
the stone house, as many suppose^ but in a log 
cabin long since destroyed. His mother's 
name was Nancy Hanks, Hornback, or Spar- 
row, I don't know^ wdiich, and his father was a 
young man from the State of Virginia. 

Mat. , who lived there (at Thatcher's 

Mill), also said: " Yes; I have letters to prove 
this statement, but I intend to burn them." 
Hundreds of persons now alive in Clark 
county, Ky., remember to have heard re- 
sponsible persons say that they had seen 
Thomas Lincoln and Nancy Hanks, Horn- 
back, or Sparrow, leave Thatcher's Mill with 
Abraham between them on their way to b'e 
married elsewhere. 

Abraham Inlow, Portuguese Miller, of 
Thatcher's Mill, felt verv sorrv for vounsr 



Affidavits. pj 

Nancy Hanks, Hornback, or Sparrow, who 
lived in the cabin aforesaid, and especially for 
Nancy and her child Abraham, who was 
named for him (Abraham Inlow), and he and 
a man by the name of Roberts paid Thomas 
Lincoln, stonemason of Clark (county), and 
native of Virginia, to marry Nancy. He con- 
sented, and they (Nancy the aforesaid and 
Thomas Lincoln) left Thatcher's Mill with 
Abraham betziJeen them^ to be married else- 
where. 

WILLL4M . 



Subscribed and sworn to before me, the 
J4th day of September, 1895. 

J. M. HODGKIN, 

Notary Public. 



My name is Daniel . I was born in 

1833, the 13th day of August, near and in 



g/j. The Sorrozcs of Naiicy. 

sight of Thatcher's Mill, in Bourbon county, 
near the line between Clark and Bourbon 
counties, Ky. When Abraham Lincoln made 
the race for President of the United States I 
heard that Abraham Lincoln was born near 
Thatcher's Mill, out of wedlock. During and 
at the time of Mr. Lincoln's race for the 
presidency I heard the above-named facts. 

DANIEL . 

Subscribed and sworn to before me by 

Daniel , this September 24, 1895. 

G. F. BURNER, 
Ex. C. C. Ky. 
(Resident of Winchester, Ky.) 



Mt. Sterling, Ky., January 23, 1896. 
My Dear Madam: 

I have known Mr. Abraham Lincoln quite 



3^. 



Affidavits. P5 

sixty years by tradition. About thirty years 
or more I knew him personally. 

He was born near Thatcher's Mill, in the 
county of Bourbon, and State of Kentucky. 
His mother's name was Nancy Hornback. 
His father's name was Abraham Inlow. Mr. 
A. Lincoln was born out of wedlock. This is 
in brief the tradition of my father and mother, 
and of the entire Inlow family for seventy 
years at least. His father was my mother's 
uncle, and my grandfather's brother. As to 
his birth, the above are the traditional facts in 
the family — and all the early settlers of Bour- 
bon county at the time of his birth. 
Very truly, etc., 

M. M. — , 

Ex-Tud2:e. 






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